


Apparition

by bastet_in_april



Category: DCU (Comics), Impulse (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_in_april/pseuds/bastet_in_april
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preston isn’t as alone as he thinks he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apparition

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [2008 DCU Free For All Autumn Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/dcu_freeforall/120816.html) (prompt: spectre) and for [2008 DCU Fic/Art Halloween Challenge](http://bradygirl-12.livejournal.com/268371.html) (prompts: Red, fall foliage, a dark and stormy night).

It is the middle of September, and summer is in its death throes. The air feels thick and smothering, and the rain that falls down from the charcoal gray clouds does little to relieve the humidity. The thunder rattles and reverberates through Preston’s chest as he points his camcorder up at the sky, capturing the lightning that lashes down towards the earth like the flick of a snake’s tongue, lighting up the underbellies of the clouds for an eyeblink. He can see the forlorn signal-light of a solitary firefly, glowing dimly around the flickering electrical streetlamp, not having the sense to get out of the storm.

Not that Preston, his hair plastered to his head with sweat and rain, has any room to talk. He doesn’t want to go inside, though. He feels like he has been holding his breath, waiting for something, since Carol left, since Bart left. Now, with the storm pressing down against the gray asphalt, it feels as if the world and Preston can finally stop holding their breath together. The streetlight dims slowly, going out, leaving the firefly alone in the gathering darkness of dusk.

Sometimes, Preston will forget that Carol and Bart are gone. He’ll see that sketchbook with the glossy green cover in the art supply shop window display and remind himself to mention it to Carol when he sees her the next day— but then he will remember that he won’t see Carol the next day, that Carol is gone. He will turn around to make some off-hand comment, only to feel that terrible jolt in his stomach as he is confronted with the empty space where Bart is supposed to be.

Bart had always had a habit of flitting in and out of other people’s lives. How many times had Preston turned around to find that Bart had vanished? But Bart always came back. This felt different, insurmountable. Denver might as well be the moon.

It’s not as though Bart is completely gone— Bart has promised to come back and visit and Preston gets occasional phone calls, when one of the two of them can get hold of the other. Bart moves from topic to topic like the skipping of a stone across a lake surface, barely pausing in his stream-of-consciousness long enough for Preston to reply. It’s like trying to hold onto water.

The streetlight on the corner snaps on abruptly with a buzzing noise and Preston jumps, cursing as the camera jerks unsteadily in his hand. There is only a dull, fuzzy light visible in the west remaining of the sunset and Preston knows there must be at least a bare handful of stars beginning to she themselves somewhere beyond the angry masses of storm clouds. On the illuminated pavement under the streetlight, Preston can see dark spots on the sidewalk, reddish-brown stains left by the decomposing skeletons of the first fallen leaves, like footprints. The streetlight buzzes uneasily, flickering rapidly, and goes out again, as suddenly as it had come on. Preston holds his breath, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, a sudden, joyful burst of adrenaline making his muscles tense, anticipating who-knows-what.

Lightning cleaves through the gloom, lighting up the entire street and the looming clouds. The will black scars scorched into the wizened oak tree across the street when Preston passes it the next morning. The sharpness of ozone stings the inside of Preston’s nose. His camera is still held up to his eye and he blinks away the spots left by the instant of blinding light.

There is a sudden rattling, desiccated leaves stirred up, whipping around Preston, the force of the sudden wind tossing them into the air and tugging at Preston’s rain-slick jacket. For a moment Preston glimpses something in the darkness, a streak of red, like the wind given solid form and vivid color. Then Preston blinks, and the night air is still and silent again. He is alone, his heart thundering in his ears, a scatter of scarlet and gold leaves at his feet.

Preston knows that no matter how many times he analyzes the film, slowing it down, the blurry apparition will never resolve into anything clear.

Preston tucks the camcorder into his pocket, and heads in out of the rain, feeling much less alone, though he isn’t certain why.

 

 


End file.
